Chapter Ten - November 22, 1963

CHAPTER TEN

November 22, 1963

IT WAS A Friday.

Clear skies. Crowds lined the streets.
Jack and Jackie were in the back of a blue Lincoln convertible, top down, waving like royalty.

Dallas was supposed to be friendly.
A goodwill visit.
Shake hands, kiss babies, and show the flag.

They’d flown in that morning.
Air Force One touched down.
The motorcade rolled out.
Jack looked tan, polished, and alive.

Then, 12:30 PM.
Dealey Plaza.

Three shots.

The first one missed.
Maybe.
Maybe it didn’t.

The second hit him in the back.
Maybe it exited his throat.
Maybe it didn’t.

The third blew the top of his head off.
That one, no one argues.

It was caught on film. A shaky, accidental masterpiece by Abraham Zapruder.
Frame 313.
You can see the moment the world snaps in half.

Jack slumped over.
Jackie screamed and climbed onto the trunk like she was trying to grab his soul and stuff it back in.

Secret Service agents swarmed the car.
The driver hit the gas.

They sped to Parkland Hospital.

But too late.

The official death announcement came just after 1:00 PM.
Jack Kennedy was dead at 46.

Pronounced in Trauma Room One.

A priest administered last rites.
The doctors kept working anyway, like maybe the rules didn’t apply to presidents.

They did.

Lyndon Johnson took the oath of office on the plane, just hours later.
Jackie stood next to him, still in her blood-soaked pink dress.

She refused to change clothes.

“I want them to see what they have done to Jack.”

News hit fast.
TV anchors choked back tears.
Schools shut down.
Bars went quiet.
People cried in the street like they’d lost a brother or a god.

The country had seen assassinations before.
But this one felt different.

This wasn’t a man being shot.
It was a dream.

Live on television.

Gone.

The questions started before the body was cold.
How?
Why?
Who?

But first, there was just silence.

And the sound of history shifting in its seat.